Flow
by Arsahi
Summary: Spoilers from HBP! Draco finds solace in his empty home with an old muggle piano his father found last year...and learns what it truly means to be a Death Eater. Draco Harry slash!
1. Play My Song

**Title**: Flow  
**Author**: Arsahi  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters therein. Sadly. J. K. Rowling owns them, the lucky girl.  
**Pairings**: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione  
**Rating**: T/M  
**Chapter**: One  
**Chapter Title**: Play My Song  
**Notes**: This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. This fic also takes place during the sixth year, and starts right after Narcissa convinces Snape to take a blood oath to protect Draco. Also, I have no idea what Draco's eagle owl is named, so I made it female and named her Circe, after the sorceress from Greek mythology that was the union of Helios (the sun god) and Hecate (goddess of the dark moon). **_WARNING: SPOILERS FROM HALF-BLOOD PRINCE._**

**Flow**  
Chapter One: Play My Song

His fingers moved gracefully over the keys of the piano, staring intently at the sheet music laid out in front of him. This was the only Muggle pasttime he allowed himself, under the watchful eye of his mother. It wouldn't do to show any inclination towards anything non-magical, no.

_I hate my life._

He had taught himself how to play the piano last summer, when his father came into possession of the old Muggle instrument. His father couldn't figure out how to spell the thing to play itself, and when his father had questioned the sounds coming from the wooden monstrosity, he had answered that he had spelled it himself. After that, his father left him alone with it, commenting that it must be horridly ancient, and that Muggles didn't know how to preserve anything.

It was his only escape somedays. His life was utterly stressful, his house was awful. Nobody spoke to anyone, his mother was gone all the time, his father was locked away in a maximum security wizards' prison, and often it was only Draco Malfoy alone in one of the largest houses in this wizarding neighborhood. It was old, lots of dark colored wood and peeling varnish when looked at closely, staircases that led nowhere, tiny rooms that served as little more than large cupboards.

_I hate my life._

And now he was wrapped up in the life his parents had sucked him into. It wasn't fair. He was only sixteen! What did he do to deserve to become a slave to Lord Voldemort, already? And he didn't even have the _option_ of choosing to say no--his parents just automatically assumed that he wanted to be a Death Eater.

_I hate my parents._

A painting of his great-great grandfather hung in the rear of the dusty old room that Draco had claimed as his music room. He looked a lot like Lucius, and Draco had long since hung a sheet over the old man when he wanted to play the piano. His owl sat, statuesque, on the back of the desk chair across the room. His owl never judged him. He never had to pretend in front of his owl that he was a big tough man, two of the greatest Death Eaters' son. He never had to pretend.

_I hate myself._

Faster now, the notes fell from his fingers and onto the piano keys, and he didn't bother to look at the sheet music. He had it memorized. It was the only piece of music he owned.

_I wish I was never born._

These thoughts had come with increasing frequency over the summer, spurred by the arrest of his father, the negligence of his mother, and the lack of communication with any of the people who claimed to be his "friends." The worst had been when Narcissa had taken him to see Lord Voldemort.

His fingers slammed on the keys of the piano all at once, producing the wanted shrieking noise he desired. Draco loved the way the notes all clashed together in a blending of sound unlike any music he could produce with his deft fingers. Closing his eyes for a moment, the young blond boy shook his head. "Circe," he said softly, holding his arm out for her. She fluttered to his arm and perched there. "Let's take you back downstairs."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  
It was another night of supper alone, Draco soon found out. Just recently, he had taken to asking the house elves to stay in the dining room with him and keep him company. They were poor company, but he was grateful for it. In a house with nobody but himself, Circe, and the house elves...

"Stay if you want," he said softly to the house elf who served his plate.

The house elf stopped and looked at Draco. "If master wishes..."

Poor company didn't cover the half of it. "You know, never mind."

The house elf scampered off. Finding he had no appetite again, Draco merely pushed around the food on his plate. "Where has Narcissa gone off to?" he wondered aloud, looking around the wide, empty dining room. He needed someone to hear his voice, needed to hear human speech from someone that wasn't afraid to speak with him. "I need to get my school things soon. That witch better be back in time to take me to Diagon Alley..."

He managed to swallow a couple bites of the tasteless food and with a sigh, forced down a gulp of pumpkin juice. Silently, he rose from his seat and headed off to the back door, looking for something to do with his time.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  
That night as Draco lay down to sleep, he heard a loud fluttering from outside of his window. Frowning, he headed to the window and slowly opened it, allowing a small pygmy owl to glide inside. "You look a lot like Weasley's owl," the blond boy commented to the bird, who merely landed on his wardrobe and held out its leg expectantly.

He untied the piece of parchment from the owl's leg, watching it warily. Scrawled upon the parchment was a letter addressed to him.

_Malfoy,_ he read, and already knew it was from that annoying Potter boy.

_I hate being constantly at war with you, so I am going to extend to you an offer of a truce for this school term. We don't need to be friends--far from it, I would rather gouge my eyes out than make friends with you--but I would like to avoid conflict with you this year._

H. P.

Looking between the letter and the owl, Draco deduced that Potter must be with the Weasleys already. Did that boy ever spend time with those Muggles he grew up with? Acerbically, Draco lifted his quill and grabbed a new piece of parchment, ready to let Potter have it.

_But wait,_ said his subconscious. _Would it kill you to have a bit of conversation with someone?_

_Potter has those bloody stupid traitors to spend time with, why would he want a conversation with me?_ he wondered back at his subconscious.

_He took the time to write to you, didn't he?_

Draco squinted suspiciously at the piece of parchment and finally patted it with an air of finality. "All right, Potter. We can have the truce."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  
Somehow, Draco spent the rest of the summer trading biting letters with Harry Potter, and he found himself not hating the Boy Who Lived so much anymore. He never would admit that to the famous boy, but it was probably his conversation that kept Draco sane. It was going on two weeks since he had last seen Narcissa, he hadn't seen his father for months now, and the only company he had was the piano and Circe.

At about the fifth day, the young blond wizard realized that his day had begun working around waiting for Potter's letters. He hated that, but it was the only other human contact he had. Draco was a social creature by nature, and he loved going to Hogwarts because he was surrounded by people, people he could associate with. He resented Harry Potter for not wanting to hang out with him. He wanted to be friends with Harry, the Boy Who Lived, because he was nothing like him. Harry had a kind heart and a knack for danger, a biting wit, but he was surrounded by tragedy.

_I'm surrounded by tragedy, too._

Laughing bitterly, Draco made his way up the stairs and to the third floor of the house, heading towards his piano room. In his hand, he held a new book, full of sheet music...that Harry Potter had bought for him. It took a certain level of comfort with Potter for Draco to admit to him that he had a love of piano music, and Potter had probably shown that confession to his mudblood friend and her muggle-loving boytoy.

Oh well. He would just deny it at school, not like his friends would believe that he would participate in such a Muggle activity as playing the piano.

Allowing himself the luxury of a smile, Draco sat at the old bench that had come with the piano and settled the sheet music upon the front of the instrument. "Let's see if the music Potter got is any good, Circe."

The owl gave a wise _hoot_ at her usual perch and ruffled her wings, turning her intelligent eyes to her master and friend. The boy with pale blond hair and gray eyes studied the music for a moment and slowly began to press the keys that coordinated with the scribed notes, letting the music consume him.

_Potter has a good ear for music._

The first run through the song was a bit clumsy, but better than his first time through the original sheet he had, and Draco found himself thoroughly enjoying the new project. It was still a few days before school began, only being the first week of August. School surely didn't start for a while--he would have to master this new song before term began. No, two songs! Three!

A familiar smirk graced the boy's pale lips and he, for once, forgot that he was all alone in a mansion big enough to fit several families. He forgot the pulsing reminder on his arm of his forced allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and he, under no circumstances, heard the approach of footsteps on the staircase.

_Thanks, Potter. I owe you for this._

"Draco."

_Fuck._

"Draco, what are you doing?"

His head bowed slightly towards the keys as he struggled to regain the sense of completion he had experienced just a few moments ago when he was playing Potter's music. "Go drown yourself, Narcissa," he told her acidly.

"What has gotten into you?" his mother demanded, making her way into the room. Circe, Draco's owl, swooped in front of her, impeding her passage for a moment, before landing upon her owner's outstretched forearm. "Are you dirtying yourself with that blasted Muggle toy?"

Inside, Draco felt the beginnings of the flames of anger lick at him. "Go, Narcissa. You have no right to be here."

"This is my house!" she protested. "I have a right to know when _my son_ is dabbling in things he ought not!"

Draco turned an icy stare to his mother and drank a sip of satisfaction at her flinch. "Leave me be, _Mother_. I want to play music to keep myself company while you're off paying attention to other people who aren't your son."

Scowling, Narcissa reached for her wand, only to have Draco snatch it from her in a sudden cry of "Expeliarmus!" She gasped, grabbed her hand, and looked hard at her son. "What has gotten into you, Draco?"

"I'm tired of this," he said quietly, throwing his mother's wand to the floor and listening to it roll along the hard wooden surface. "Go back to whatever rat hole you crawled out of, Narcissa."

Narcissa Malfoy was truly afraid of her son, standing there in all of his regal, aristocratic upbringing, with his wand hanging loosely in his hand. Circe perched upon her master's shoulder and he looked for all intents and purposes like a true Death Eater, garbed in a black cloak and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the mark of Lord Voldemort upon his forearm. His pale eyes hardened as he continued to gaze upon the defenseless Narcissa, icy, statuesque, and foreboding. A breeze from the open window fluttered his white-blond hair, making him seem even more motionless.

"Leave, Narcissa," intoned those ghostly lips.

Snatching up her wand, Draco's mother escaped from the music room and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. What was happening him? He had never felt the frozen fingers of rage grip him that tightly before. Was _this_ the Dark Lord's influence?

Or had this been hiding in him all along? 


	2. The Threat is Real

**Title**: Flow  
**Author**: Arsahi  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters therein. Sadly. J. K. Rowling owns them, the lucky girl.  
**Pairings**: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione  
**Rating**: T/M  
**Chapter**: Two  
**Chapter Title**: The Threat is Real  
**Notes**: **_WARNING: SPOILERS FROM HALF-BLOOD PRINCE._**

**Flow**  
Chapter Two: The Threat is Real

  
"Are you sure Dumbledore told you to try and make friends with Malfoy?" Ron Weasley asked dubiously of his best mate, Harry Potter. He, Harry, and Hermione Granger were spread about his room.

Harry sighed and looked at Ron. "I already told you, Ron. Professor Dumbledore told me to try and make things as easy as possible on myself this term, and the most obvious way is to at least have a truce with Malfoy. I'd rather gouge my eyes out than actually be friends with the prat."

"Don't you think it's rather suspicious that Malfoy agreed so easily?" Hermione piped up, leaning against the side of the bed with a knee drawn to her chest. The boys sat upon Ron's mattress.

"I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth," Harry said simply. "If Malfoy wants to agree to this, then I hope he's telling the truth."

"Why do you keep answering his letters, Harry?" Ron wanted to know, his hand dangling off of his bed dangerously close to Hermione's head.

Harry had already explained this several times to his friends. Dumbledore, before he had brought the famous boy to the Weasleys, had told him that this year, it would be critical to make things as easy on himself as possible. Harry took this advice seriously, opting to make peace with Draco Malfoy for the year, which he hoped meant Malfoy avoiding him as often as possible and refraining from leading the Slytherins in rousing renditions of the original "Weasley Is Our King."

Honestly, as he had told both his friends and Malfoy, he would rather die than actually make friends with the annoying git. But, as long as he didn't have to deal with the antics caused by Malfoy all year, that would be great. In fact, it would be more than great, it would be...pleasant.

"Wouldn't it look a little suspicious if I suddenly wanted to call a truce with Malfoy and he kept writing me letters and I didn't answer them?" Harry asked of them.

"But they aren't even nice letters!" Ron cried, grabbing one of them. "'Saint Potter,'" he read in his most accurate Malfoy voice. "'How is life at the Weasel's? Give him a good kick in the shin for me.' What kind of person on a truce writes things like that?"

Harry shrugged. He had the letter with Malfoy's admission of his hobby of piano playing folded up in his pocket. Contrary to Malfoy's assumption, he hadn't shown the letter to either Ron nor Hermione, nor anyone else. He knew Malfoy would die if that ever got out, and he didn't really want to hurt Malfoy right now. He hadn't done anything particularly heinous yet. Once he did, the Piano Secret would leak out though.

Curious, Hermione took the letter from Ron and began reading through the others. "This isn't Malfoy's normal attitude. I mean, the words are the right words, but...I don't know, it just doesn't seem as malicious as he normally would be. Maybe he's really trying for this truce."

In the piano letter, Malfoy had also admitted a few other things to Harry: that he was alone in the house most of the time, with Narcissa gone more often than not. Harry took that to mean that Malfoy was truly lonely. The underlying words were, "I have nobody to talk to, and I am lonely."

"I feel kinda sorry for him," Harry admitted, running his thumb along the folded edge of the letter. "I don't think he's really all that cruel underneath everything."

Hermione and Ron stared at Harry as if he'd grown a second head. "Harry, are you all right?" Ron asked. "You don't feel ill, do you?"

"Why on earth would you feel _sorry_ for Draco Malfoy? He's been nothing but a jerk since we met him!" Hermione told him agitatedly.

Shaking his head, Harry resigned himself to the fact that they wouldn't understand. After a week or so of trading letters with Malfoy, it was easy to read between the lines of arrogance into what he was intending to say. "Saint Potter" was Malfoy's way of saying that Harry was a good person, which wasn't exactly true in Harry's mind, but he didn't want to refute what Malfoy said. It would have only caused a fight.

"It was a stupid thing to say," Harry said at last. _Not that stupid, they just don't get it. I don't suppose they would. They hate Malfoy more than I do--they have more reason to hate him than I do. He calls Hermione a 'mudblood' all the time, and he calls Ron 'Weasel' and makes fun of him all the time. He really doesn't pick on me all that much, just my friends._

Stretching, Harry slid from the top of Ron's bed and flashed a forced smile at his friends. "I think I'm going to go hang out with Ginny for a bit, if you don't mind?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances and the sixteen-year-old witch flashed Harry a knowing grin. "All right, Harry. See you around!"

Quickly, Harry ducked from the room and made his way to the Weasleys' backyard, planning some quality time to mope and think. So much had been happening lately, especially with Sirius's death, his newly forged truce with Malfoy, and private lessons with Dumbledore...what was happening to his world? It kept changing so suddenly, all the time. People would come into his life and just as swiftly leave it, by choice or by death or by whatever means.

The sound of an owl overhead brought Harry's attention crashing back to earth and he immediately recognized the beautiful plummage of Draco Malfoy's owl, Circe. _Strange_, mused Harry. _I wasn't expecting Circe until tomorrow._

Wait...expecting?

Circe wheeled downward to land upon Harry's offered arm and waited patiently for the young black-haired wizard to untie the parchment from her leg. Hooting her gratitude, she immediately took flight once free of her parcel, disappearing into the horizon.

_Potter:_

She destroyed the piano and the music.

D.M.

Not certain he read the letter correctly, Harry gave it a second run. It was shorter than all of the rest of Malfoy's previous letters, and it expressed more distress than he had ever heard from his blond yearmate. Though Harry knew exactly what the letter said and he had deciphered what Malfoy was trying to convey, he was still puzzled as to who "she" could be.

_Well, the only "she" I know he's in contact with, however briefly, is his mother_, Harry reasoned. _So it's not so farfetched to say that Narcissa Malfoy "destroyed the piano and the music." What that sentence really should be is, "She destroyed_ my _piano and _your_ music." But why would Narcissa want to get rid of a harmless piano? Is it too Muggle for the wizarding world? That must be the answer, unless she knew I sent him that music._

Sighing, Harry leaned against a nearby tree and reread the letter again.

_I'm sorry, Malfoy. That piano must have meant a lot to you for you to write me and tell me about it. Everybody I come in contact with gets hurt, somehow._ The parchment crumpled in Harry's hands as he pressed his newly formed fists to his face. _That piano meant so much to you, and I got it taken away. Not even taken away...destroyed, gone, obliterated. Why does knowing me mean everybody gets hurt? Now Malfoy won't want that truce. I'm such an _idiot_! I never should have tried to make things easier on myself--I deserve everything I get. I'm a curse. I got Sirius killed, I got my parents killed, and I got the only thing Malfoy enjoyed taken away forever._

"Harry?"

The Boy Who Lived jumped up from his slumped position against the tree and hurried jammed the wrinkled letter into his pocket. "Ginny," he said, trying to keep the surprise and the strong emotions out of his voice. "What...what are you doing out here?"

Ginny Weasley, the youngest of the Weasley children, put her hands on her hips. "I think I should be asking you that question, Harry. Why were you curled up on the tree like that? Did something happen?"

Immediately, Harry shook his head. "No, nothing at all," he said, a little too quickly.

Studying him, the fifteen-year-old fifth year smiled gently at him. "It's not your fault, you know," she replied, her voice barely audible. "Sirius died because he was fighting for something he believed in." The kind smile on her face never faltered. "I think that's one of the best ways to die." She held her hand out to him. "Harry, Sirius died fighting for you because he believed in you. He died fighting for the Order of the Phoenix, because he believed in the Order. He died for himself, because he believed in himself."

Blinking quickly to fight back the tears that always welled up in his eyes whenever his godfather Sirius Black's name was mentioned, Harry reached out and took hold of Ginny's warm fingers, the letter in his pocket forgotten. "That still doesn't change the fact that he died because of me...everyone I come in contact with dies or gets hurt somehow."

"You don't honestly believe that, do you, Harry?" Ginny asked him. "You can't honestly believe that you got Sirius killed? Harry, he died because of--"

Squeezing her hand, Harry pulled Ginny to him for a hug. "Thanks for trying, Ginny...but it was my fault, and no matter what, I don't want to be talked out of it. I want to know that I got him killed, and I want to remember that."

Ginny pushed him away, looked up at him with her piercing eyes, and hurried back into the Burrow, but not before stiffling a sob. Sighing, Harry just added that to the list of people he had hurt.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  
Potter may not have noticed it, but Draco surely did--Potter forgot to answer his letter after he notified the Boy Who Lived about Narcissa's prompt removal of the piano. All the blond boy had left of his precious pasttime was a jar full of ashes, and the faint crumblings of the music book Potter had bought for him. Now Draco had nothing to amuse himself with and just spent the dwindling days of summer in the gardens at the rear of Malfoy Manor as Circe circled overhead.

Without the music to distract him, the pulsing mark of a conscript of the Dark Lord caught most of his attention. The oddly shaped thing seemed to change its finite details at will, perhaps depending on Voldemort's mood, or Draco's mood, or how many new slaves he had. He remembered the burning sensation he experienced when he had threatened Narcissa before she destroyed his piano--it felt like frozen fingers pushing up against his skin, so cold it burned.

It didn't hurt to touch it physically, Draco found out as he sat himself upon the edge of the black marble fountain at the very center of the gardens. The stone was so smooth and colorless it was quite difficult to discern what shape the body of the water vessel took and after sixteen years, Draco still didn't know. He reached out and touched the round belly of one of the figures--perhaps a pixy or nymph of some type. The stone had absorbed so much sunlight and warmth that it scalded his fingertips upon contact but still Draco held it.

Droplets of water splashed onto the young dark wizard from the three cascading faucets of the fountain and did little to cool him from the summer heat. Finally, when he could no longer feel the tips of his fingers, Draco drew away from the smooth marble. Raw red skin, almost the crimson shade of blood, greeted him as he inspected the damage, and blisters had begun to form around the edges of the damaged skin. His wand hand would be unusable for weeks if he didn't repair this quickly...

It didn't hurt, really. It stung for a few moments and smelled like cooking meat for slightly longer, but then...then it went away as the numbness set in.

Suddenly, Draco stepped into the shin-high waters of the fountain and pressed both of his hands, fingers and palms, against the heated black marble of the statue.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

  
Harry realized five days after Malfoy had sent his last letter that no more had come.

Then he remembered the letter he had shoved in his pocket when Ginny had startled him.

"The letter," Harry muttered, rushing up to his room. "Where did I put it?"

Turning his room upside down and inside out, Harry discovered that he couldn't find the letter anywhere. He remembered that it was about Narcissa getting rid of Malfoy's piano...oh, yeah. Hurriedly, Harry snatched a piece of parchment from the stack he had and began writing. He apologized for the lateness of the letter and began to apologize for causing Malfoy trouble.

It ended up being a two-page letter that he sent with Hedwig.

Harry did not hear back from Malfoy again. 


End file.
